


The World Will Never Be The Same

by joyofthejoui



Series: The Varo'verse [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, nothing really bad but I feel compelled to warn for that, terrible strict Altmer ideas of parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyofthejoui/pseuds/joyofthejoui
Summary: About eighty years before the events of Skyrim, a young Bosmer thief meets the love of her life in Raven Rock.Emilin meets Curinwe. A prequel to "The Bonds of Civility", starring a character from that fic and the Dragonborn's grandmother. But stands on its own. (Pre F/F. One day these two will get together, but right now they are still kids.)





	The World Will Never Be The Same

**12 Sun’s Dusk, 4E 124, Raven Rock, Solstheim**

Snow and ash fell upon Raven Rock in about equal amounts that gray winter’s afternoon. To the town’s usual inhabitants, this was nothing extraordinary, but to the young Bosmer standing at the docks, it was another confirmation that she had come to the very end of the world. She hoped it wouldn’t also be the end of her life.  Because between the cold and the Redoran guards, it was too harsh a city for a homeless fourteen year-old pickpocket and sneak thief.

Adran had promised they’d make a fortune up here. Adran was now nameless ashes in a simple clay urn. Emilin had never really respected the Dunmer burglar, but he’d been the only person willing to take her along when the Anvil Thieves Guild had shut them out from their territory. He’d said he had contacts in Solstheim; he and his contacts had been executed a couple weeks ago for banditry.

She missed Adran more than she had ever imagined she would. His last gift to her was to tell Councilor Morvayn she was an orphan child he used for pickpocketing, but she had never been involved with banditry. Morvayn had accepted that testimony; it was the truth and he had a reputation of a just mer. After Adran’s execution, Emilin had spent two weeks in prison for pickpocketing, and just this morning had been turned loose again upon the world.

Her immediate plan was to return to Cyrodiil. She’d had enough of Solstheim to last her a lifetime. Earning the fare for her passage, though, was going to be difficult. She had hoped she could work her way back on one of the ships at dock, but no one was hiring an inexperienced Bosmer girl. At least not for work she’d be willing to do. One captain had offered her a trip back as his bedwarmer. These disgusting propositions were becoming more and more common, even if she thought she still looked like a skinny, undeveloped child. That had been another good thing about Adran; he’d never been interested in women.

She supposed she could try again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. If she was persistent, she’d find some kind or desperate soul who’d take her on as part of their crew. In the meantime, she had to find some food and avoid freezing.

She did not plan to try her luck pick-pocketing again. The guards knew to watch for her now. Instead, she'd ask around if anyone needed work done. If all else failed, she'd beg. She'd done it before. However, Raven Rock seemed like a terrible place to beg and Dunmer in general weren't the most generous people. They were too sharp, too wise to the ways of the world, and suspicious of outsiders. It probably served them well in their horrid lands. But there were lots of Imperials here as well, connected with the mine; they might be more easily persuaded.

She was walking away from the waterfront, watching for opportunities, when in the corner of her eye she saw a small leather purse fall to the ground. She looked back. Its owner, a dark-haired human girl about her own height, was skipping down to the docks, completely unaware that she'd dropped anything. Emilin froze. No one was about. The windows on the street were shuttered against the ash and snow. With one trembling hand, she grabbed the purse and stuffed it into her skirt, then continued up the street, away from the human girl.

She walked on through the town, putting some distance between her and the purse's owner, before she stopped in a little-used blind alley to inspect her prize.

Inside the purse were five septims, a handful of red-and-white striped hard sweets, and a crumpled piece of paper. The latter was covered in close, cramped handwriting. The writing was Altmeris, she noted in surprise. She’d learned a little of it as a child in Valenwood; the Thalmor insisted in writing everything in it, sometimes even using Altmer runes to write down Bosmeris and the Common Tongue (if they were forced to use those). This she couldn’t decipher but from the few words she recognized, it appeared to be about magic.  It was a strange thing for a young human to be carrying about.

She took the money and the sweets, then put the paper back in the purse and dropped it on the ground. If the paper was important, someone might give it back to the girl. The money meanwhile would at least get her through the night.

At the entrance of the alley, she met the girl again. The girl was standing there as though she'd been waiting for Emilin to come back out. This time she got a good look at her. She was wearing very fine fur-trimmed green robes, shiny black leather boots and gloves. Her dark brown hair was braided back into a knot. Her skin was very pale, except for a sprinkling of freckles, and her eyes were brown. Emilin had difficulty telling humans apart, especially when they were young, but she thought the girl might be a Breton or a Nord.

“You have my purse,” the girl greeted her.

“I don’t,” said Emilin with complete honesty.

“Did you drop it then?” asked the girl, scanning the alley behind her.

“You can go look,” said Emilin.  The purse was far down the alley. When the girl went to look, she’d run.

“I’m a mage,” the girl announced. “I tracked you here.”

“I still don’t have your purse. Let me pass.”

“You took my notes on transmutation.”

Emilin pushed past the girl into the street.

“Thief!” the girl screamed. “She stole my purse!”

She had the guards down on them almost immediately. Emilin was an agile sprinter, but the Redoran guards were very, very good at their job. She got a couple streets away before she was grabbed by one of them.

“Already back with us?” the guard said in disgust as he held her by the back of her neck.

The girl and the other guards reached them.

“She stole my purse,” the girl announced again.

“I told you. I don’t have it. You can search me,” she added to the guards.

“We’ll do that back at the Bulwark,” replied the guard. “Let’s go.”

And so Emilin was returned to the Bulwark Jail within a few hours of having been released from it. The jailer rolled her eyes when she was marched in. “That’s a record.”

“She took the little lady’s purse,” one of the guards explained, gesturing to the human girl. “That’s the allegation anyway. If you could search her for us.”

Thank the Divines for Redoran propriety. The jailer took Emilin out of the room to search her.

“You didn’t have this money when you left us this morning,” the jailer commented when she found the septims.

“Found it on the ground,” mumbled Emilin. “Is that a crime?”

“Yes, you should have turned it in.” The jailer let her redress, then led her back into the front room. “What was it you lost, Curinwe?”

Emilin was surprised when the human girl responded to this mer’s name. “My purse. It was made of leather and it had five septims, cinnamon candy, and my notes on Transmutation.”

The jailer showed her the money and the candy.

“But where are my notes?” asked the girl in bewilderment.

“Probably threw them out with the purse,” one of the guards said. “I’ll take you back to look for them if you like.”

Curinwe turned on Emilin. “Tell me where you put them. Now.” She snapped her fingers and lightning wrapped itself around her glove.

“Stop that,” said the guard, smacking Curinwe lightly across the top of her head. “Unless you want to go in a cell too.”

“She’s the one who stole my purse!” Curinwe protested.

“She’s a career thief. You’re better than that. Let’s go look.”

“It’s at the end of the alleyway,” Emilin spoke up. “Where you found me.”

“Thank you,” said the guard. “Come along, Curinwe.”

The girl and the guard left the room, then the other guards began laughing.

“Lightning, by Azura.”

“She went full Altmer, didn’t she?” said the jailer, wiping her eyes from mirth.

“Imperious little brat. Should we tell her folks?”

“I don’t think so,” another of the guards replied. “Master Andanyon’s too harsh on her already.”

“Is he really?” asked the jailer.

“Maybe not if she was a mer, but she’s a frail little thing,” the guard clarified. “Human children are, you know.”

“Except for those little Nord monsters.” The guards burst out laughing again. Then the jailer seemed to remember Emilin’s presence. “Come along, girl. Your old cell’s waiting for you.”

Emilin settled back on the straw pallet of her cell, and stared at the stone blocks of the ceiling. She didn’t need to worry about freezing to death at least. Or starving. The food in this prison wasn’t very appetizing, but it had kept her on her feet. She worried what Councilor Morvayn’s new verdict would be, though, after she’d returned so quickly to crime. Would he interpret her new misadventure as evidence she was mixed up in that bandit business after all? She could be facing much worse than another few weeks in jail.

Suddenly, the feeling came over her that she was being watched. She sat up quickly. At the bars of her cell, the girl named Curinwe was standing quietly. She put her finger to her lips.

Emilin stood up and went to the bars. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. The girl was alone; Emilin did not think she had been brought down here by any guard.

“I came to see you,” said Curinwe quietly. “The guard told me you didn’t have any money and that’s why stole my purse.”

“Uh . . .” Emilin was surprised. One of these stiff-necked guards had enough compassion to summarize it that way?

“What’s your name?” Curinwe asked.

“Emilin,” she answered.

“Are you from Valenwood?”

“Yes.” She stared at the girl. “Why are you back here? Did you find your notes?”

Curinwe nodded. “The purse was right where you said it was. You should have just told me you needed money.”

Emilin began to laugh. “What? Do you give away your coins to beggars then?”

“Only if they’re girls,” said Curinwe promptly. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

 “I thought you were my age,” said Curinwe, sounding disappointed. “I’m twelve but I’m taller than you!”

“You aren’t! You’re wearing boots!” On average, Bosmer were smaller in stature than other races, but this girl wasn’t so tall herself.

Curinwe looked down at her feet. “No, I’m definitely taller than you.”

“Take off your boots then!”

“It’s too cold. Anyway, I’ll give you those septims. But not the candy.”

“Don’t give me anything in here. They’ll think I stole it somehow.”

Curinwe frowned. “How long are they going to keep you in here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll cut off my head this time.”

Curinwe looked shocked. “I don’t think they’d do that!” she insisted.

Emilin shrugged. “They cut off my old master’s head. Maybe I’m next.”

Curinwe stomped her foot. “No. I won’t let them!”

“How? Can you boss around House Redoran?”

Instead of replying, Curinwe had her hands on the lock. Emilin realized she was trying to open the lock with magic. By the looks of it, it wasn’t working.

“Wait, are you trying to break me out of prison?” Emilin demanded.

“I can do it!” Curinwe said through gritted teeth. “I just have to release the tumbler gently . . .” There was a soft click. “There.” The door swung open and Curinwe slumped to the ground, breathing heavily. “Just wait, I’m so tired.”

Emilin crouched beside her. “What did you do to the lock?” she asked.

“Telekinesis spell . . . but I couldn’t see inside . . . so it was hard,” Curinwe panted.

“You really shouldn’t break me out,” said Emilin after a while. “You’re exhausted anyway.”

“I told you . . . I’m a mage . . . I just need two minutes.”

“All right.” Emilin sat back down just inside her cell. If a guard did come upon them like this, at least she’d still be in the opened cell.

She studied Curinwe curiously as they waited. She looked like an ordinary human girl, but a lot of things didn’t add up about her: The mer name, the guards’ comments, her ridiculous talent for magic and her Altmeris notes.

“What’s your full name, Curinwe?” she asked.

“Just Curinwe.”

“But what’s your family name?”

The girl scrunched up her face. “I don’t have one.  Altmer usually don’t.”

“Uh . . . “ Emilin was taken aback. How to point out the obvious. She decided on the blunt route. “You’re not a mer.”

“ _Oh_ ,” the girl nodded. “I see. You don’t know about my father. He’s a mer. He named me Curinwe.”

“He’s Altmer?” asked Emilin in disbelief.

“Yes. He’s a _very_ powerful mage from the Summerset Isles. I don’t look like him, I know.”

Curinwe’s father sounded weird. What sort of Altmer would have a human child? Nothing like the Thalmor swanning around Valenwood.

“What about your mother?” Emilin asked.

“She’s from High Rock. She’s a mage too. But she’s not famous.”

“Do you live with both of them?”

Curinwe nodded. “We’re renting a house here.” She stood up. “Come on, Emilin, I’m better now.”

“Come on _where_?’ asked Emilin.

“Out of this jail. You’ll be safe in my home. We have wards and everything.”

“Curinwe, your parents won’t want an escaped thief in their home.”

Curinwe considered this. “Maybe they won’t like it?” she conceded. “But I think my mom would like you. Just come and see.”

“Your father . . .”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s angry. He makes me keep my promises and I’m _promising_ you.” She stamped her foot lightly. “ _Come on_.”

Disregarding the protests of her common sense, Emilin followed after the girl. At the foot of the stairs, Curinwe turned and took her hands. “I’m casting Muffle,” she whispered. A warm sensation burst from Curinwe’s gloved hands, spreading through Emilin’s body before disappearing entirely. “And now Chameleon.” The sensation repeated itself. “We’ll be very, very hard to see. But not invisible. So stay quiet and follow me.”

This was ridiculous, Emilin told herself as they slowly climbed the stairs. Why was she putting her trust in a girl who was even younger than her? Even if Curinwe got her out of here, her parents would never accept their daughter’s new criminal friend. Emilin would be on the run again, unable to even look for passage back to Cyrodiil.

But this girl was the most powerful child mage Emilin had ever met. She cast spells as though they were no harder than breathing. Both Altmer and Bretons were magically gifted, but not like this. Emilin wanted to see more, to learn how Curinwe had developed her odd, optimistic view of the world. Was there really a grand Altmer mage who’d let his daughter take in a stray like her?

At the top of the staircase, Curinwe put her hand to the door. Emilin pulled her back. “Let me check first.” She’d been a thief since she was a very small child; she might not have any magic, but she had caution and criminal experience, two things this strange girl obviously lacked. Emilin put her ear to the door and listened.

There were soft sounds from the room beyond: breathing and the rustle of papers. She leant over to Curinwe to whisper, “Someone’s in there.”

“There’s always a guard,” Curinwe whispered back. “But we can sneak out. My spells only last for a few minutes, though.”

“We can sneak out, sure, but opening the door will be obvious.”

“Then I’ll distract the guard.”

“ _How_?”

“Open it a crack, let me see.”

This was a terrible idea, and yet Emilin did it. She had a long history of embracing terrible, terrible ideas after all. Stowing away on a ship out of Valenwood had been the first of many, and she’d only been eight years old then. Now, she edged the door open a crack for Curinwe to peer through.

Curinwe lifted her hand to the crack. A few seconds later, there was a crashing sound in the room. Then Curinwe pushed the door open fully, and Emilin followed her through into the room.

The desk on the far side of the room had collapsed and the guard was crouched over it, his back to them. Emilin closed the door softly behind them and they sprinted for the open door to their right. They ran down the passage beyond, at last coming to a courtyard. Emilin knew the place well. It was the walled exercise yard where the prisoners were sometimes allowed to walk. Right now it was empty, and the ground was a mix of ash, snow, and mud.

“What did you do in there?” Emilin whispered to Curinwe.

“Telekinesis spell,” Curinwe explained. “Easier than the lock. I just nudged out the desk’s leg.”

“How can you do all these spells? Aren’t they from different schools of magic?”

Curinwe nodded. “Yes. But I’m not good at all of them. That’s why my father gave me enchanted gloves.”

Curinwe had a different definition of ‘not good at them’ than Emilin. But it wasn’t time to pry further into her abilities. They needed to get out of this courtyard.

“I can climb this wall,” Emilin offered. “Then I’ll get you up.”

It was Curinwe’s turn  to be surprised. “Are you sure you can climb that? It’s not – there’s nothing to hold on to.”

“Just watch me.” Emilin reached up and found her first hand hold. A ground-raised human might not be able to use the slight depressions in the stone, but she was a child of Valenwood, climbing before she even learned to walk.

When she’d been in the courtyard before, there’d been guards to watch her. Now she easily scrambled up the eight-foot wall. At the very top, she pulled herself up onto the wall, hoping no one would look up and see her. She wasn’t sure if Curinwe’s chameleon spell was still in effect. There was no reaction from the street beyond. The snow was picking up and the street seemed completely empty. She hooked her feet over the edge of the wall, then hung down to reach Curinwe’s hand.

“You can’t pull me up,” Curinwe objected.

“No, I’m going to show you where to put your feet, while I hold your hands. Take off your gloves and give me that Chameleon spell again. This will probably take a while.”

Curinwe sent the rush of warmth into Emilin’s hands again, then began to take off her gloves, which she folded and stuffed into her robes.

“Are you able to do magic without those gloves?” Emilin asked, remembering Curinwe had said they were enchanted.

“I can do Illusion spells in my sleep,” boasted Curinwe. “These help me with Alteration.”

“Okay, give me your hands, and listen very carefully. See that little depression about two feet above the wall – no, not there, about six inches to your right. Yes, there you go. Put your right foot there.”

Curinwe proved to be good at following directions and a reasonably strong climber. In the space of a few minutes, Emilin had guided and pulled her up to the top of the wall. From there, they dropped easily down into the street. Curinwe then took over, guiding her new friend through the thick-falling snow. It seemed like there was going to be a blizzard; it couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time.

They paused many times along the way, crouching in dark corners and waiting for adults to pass. It was very slow going – perhaps an hour spent in the blizzard - but at last, they came to an arch which Curinwe ducked under. “This is my home. We-“

“Curinwe,” a deep male voice spoke from behind them.

They turned around. Standing in the street behind them was an Altmer dressed in black mage’s robes with silver embroidery along his sleeves and collar. His long hair was pure white, hardly distinguishable from the snowflakes that were coating it.

“Father,” answered Curinwe, bowing to him.

“Curinwe,” the mer’s expression was unreadable. “Introduce your guest.”

“Honoured father, I present to you Emilin, my new friend,” said Curinwe.

The mer turned to Emilin. “Welcome to my house, Emilin. I am Master Andanyon of Shimmerene. If my daughter calls you friend, you have our hospitality.” He somehow said this kind-sounding sentence without a trace of warmth in his voice.

“Th-thank you,” Emilin stuttered.

Emilin hadn’t known what to expect of Curinwe’s father, but she somehow hadn’t expected him to be such a stern-seeming mage. He was an Altmer who’d defied every tradition in siring a human daughter, and yet he would not have been out of place within the ranks of the Thalmor themselves.

“In other circumstances, I might call the guard on an escaped petty thief,” the mer continued. “But Curinwe has offered you our help, and her word must be kept.”

Emilin was beginning to wish she’d never come here.

“Curinwe, I have just received a report from the Redoran Guard. You are not, dear daughter, as sneaky as you may think.”

Curinwe bowed her head again. “I apologize for my behaviour, Father.”

“As you should. You will both be happy to hear that I have paid the Bosmer’s fine. Emilin, you are free to stay with us or to depart, as you wish. If you do return to thievery, however, I will not tolerate Curinwe’s continued association with you.”

A large part of Emilin wanted to turn heel and walk away. Receiving charity from a disdainful Altmer was excruciating. But then Curinwe flashed her a hopeful look. The girl wanted her to stay

“Please sir,” began Emilin, swallowing down her pride. “I would like to stay and repay your generosity.”

Master Andanyon nodded curtly. “Well-done. Curinwe’s mother will take charge of you. I have no idea what to do with teenage girls.” There was the first hint of humour in his voice.

He ushered them through the arch and into a snow-covered courtyard. Then he turned to face Curinwe.

“As for you, my daughter,” he turned to Curinwe. “Your behaviour today deserves a proper punishment.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Kneel.” He ordered.

Curinwe knelt down in the snow.

“You will stay there until dawn. Think on your conduct, Curinwe, and resolve yourself to mend it.”

“I will, Father.”

He turned his back on his daughter. “Come with me, Emilin. It’s nearly supper time.” In shock, Emilin did not obey but stared at Curinwe, kneeling quietly in the snow of the courtyard. Curinwe met her eyes and smiled back, nodding for Emilin to follow her father.

Emilin did so regretfully. As they passed into the house, however, she screwed up her courage to address him. “Master Andanyon, it’s freezing out there.”

“She may warm herself. Do not worry for her. You have already seen how easily she draws on her magic. But she must learn discipline and that does not come easily to a child of man.”

“I see . . .”

“You may call me sir,” Andanyon told her.

“Yes, sir.”

It was blessedly warm inside the house, and a lot cozier than she’d expected from Master Andanyon’s austere manner. The furnishings reminded her of Cyrodiil. The mage directed her to sit on a cushioned wooden chair near the front door, then went to fetch Curinwe’s mother.

The Breton woman who bounded into the room about ten minutes later was the complete opposite of Master Andanyon. She came up only to about his shoulders, and she was wearing a bright green gown with red roses embroidered all across the bodice. There were inkstains on her right sleeve. She looked very much like a larger version of Curinwe, but in contrast to Curinwe’s careful braids, she wore her brown hair up in an untidy bun. Her smile was exactly like her daughter’s. “You poor girl,” she cried out. “You look frozen. I’ll get you a hot bath right away.”

“This is my wife, Jeanne,” Master Andanyon explained to Emilin. “I’ve told her you’ll be staying with us.”

"You’ll have to tell me all about your adventures in jailbreaking, Emilin,” said Jeanne. She took Emilin gently by the arm and swept her along further into the house and down a flight of stairs into the cellar. “Bath is down here.”

“I’m really grateful to your family, Mistress Jeanne,” Emilin told her.

“ _Mistress_ Jeanne.” The woman giggled. “Do you want to call me that? It makes me feel ancient.”

“Uh . . . your husband said –“

“If you’re going to live with us, the first thing to understand is that he does his thing, I do mine. And we don’t bother each other about it. Much.” She looked back up the stairs. “ _Stuffy old elf_. Here’s a towel, sweetheart. You can call me Jeanne.”

“Jeanne. I feel terrible for getting Curinwe in trouble with her father. He said she has to kneel outside in the courtyard all night.”

Jeanne sighed. “Yes. He told me that. I . . . I’ll be honest with you, Emilin. His word is law when it comes to Curinwe. And if I hadn’t accepted that . . . maybe it’d have been for the better, but I made a choice. Curinwe’s going to have a hard life, Emilin.”

“How is it going to be hard?”

“Her father’s family wants to kill her,” replied Jeanne gravely. “And me and my husband. You shouldn’t stay too long with us, Emilin. I’ll find you passage back to the mainland.”

Emilin’s heart sunk. “Why do they want to kill you?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Elven supremacy, surely you know all about that. By your accent you’re Valenwood-born.”

“I left Valenwood when I was eight!” protested Emilin.

“Yes. You’re just a street waif with no home or family, a poor unfortunate young girl, and yet – I look at you and I think, _What if this is another Thalmor assassin?”_

“I’m not an assassin!”

“I don’t think you are. I already checked into you and your bandit friends when you were first arrested. I keep a very close eye on all comings and goings in Raven Rock. But I can’t ever stop wondering and doubting.”

“ _Please._ I already like your family, a lot. I want to stay.” Emilin’s eyes stung.

“My husband thinks you’ll make a good companion for Curinwe,” said Jeanne. “I don’t think you should be asked to risk your life for that.”

“I’m an orphan! I’ve been risking my life every day of my miserable existence.” Tears were now rolling down her face.

“I see,” said Jeanne, and then she embraced Emilin, holding her tightly to her chest. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You can stay with us as long as you want.”

Emilin did not remember her mother. No one had ever held her like this. Despite all Jeanne’s warnings of the Thalmor, she’d never felt so safe before.

“Let’s get that bath ready.” Jeanne let go of her at last, and to her surprise, Emilin saw that her face was covered in tears as well.

“Will Curinwe be okay out there?” Emilin asked.

“She will. Her father wants her to be tough, Emilin. He wants her to be the toughest, cleverest, most resourceful mage she can be. Because he wants her to _live_. He wants her to be able to laugh in the face of the Thalmor one day, to strike them down like flies if they ever dare bother her.”

“She can do that,” said Emilin fervently. “I know she can.”

Jeanne nodded. “After your bath I’ll let you eat your dinner in bed, if you like. I’ll take Curinwe her food after that.”

As Emilin slipped into the hot waters of the bath, Jeanne left to check on the supper. Before she left, she asked Emilin if she was Green Pact. A surprisingly kind question, but Emilin explained that no, she’d eat  anything.

The Green Pact was sometimes the only thing outsiders knew about Valenwood, and it wasn’t even a thing anymore. Not under the Dominion. Maybe there were wild forest tribes still holding to it, but the Thalmor called it a degraded, barbaric tradition that offended their Aldmeri ancestors. In practice, most Bosmer still preferred to eat meat, but the Thalmor had introduced the feast of Harvest’s End, where every autumn stressed local officials kept lists of who partook in the offerings of fruit and vegetables. As a kinless young brat, Emilin had loved Harvest’s End for its bountiful free food. The sinister aspect of the proceedings only occurred to her years later, discussing it with older Bosmer in Cyrodiil.

Jeanne came back to show her to a large bedroom on the second floor of the home. The room was filled with bookcases and shelves, chock full of books, toys, knicks-knacks, amulets, spell scrolls and alchemical ingredients. This was Curinwe’s room, Jeanne explained, though now it’d be Emilin’s too. Tomorrow, they’d get Emilin a new bed, and some furniture. They’d clear out a space for her own things, Jeanne promised, and get her a screen to give her some privacy. Tonight she could sleep in Curinwe’s bed and wear one of Curinwe’s spare nightgowns.

The dinner she’d promised was waiting on a tray on Curinwe’s desk. Delicious-smelling roast meat, apple pie, leek soup, and fresh baked buns. The Bulwark Jail had fed Emilin enough to keep her going, but it’d been tasteless slop and hardtack. In fact, the last time she’d eaten a really good meal had been back in Anvil.

She carried the tray over to the bed, climbed under the warm comforter and devoured the supper. Lying back in this bed was like lying on a very fluffy cloud. She couldn’t be grateful enough for all this. But she’d try.

After a while lying there in bliss, the guilt set in, remembering Curinwe out there in the courtyard. The wind was howling outside, with snow battering the shutters. At last, Emilin got up and went to the window and threw open the wooden shutters. She could see light in the courtyard below, but nothing distinctly.

Jeanne had taken away her clothes to wash, so she wrapped herself in a quilt, and then crept out into the hallway. She snuck down the stairs and past the warm kitchen. She paused there. Curinwe’s parents were talking inside.

“You could still do that,” Master Andanyon was saying. “Take her and hide away from the world completely.”

“Never,” Jeanne replied. “That wouldn’t be living.”

“Then, my dear girl, we have to take some chances.”

“I know that. I just – can we move somewhere warmer next, please?”

He laughed. “Red Mountain next, then.”

Jeanne giggled and then it sounded as if someone had been pulled into the other’s embrace. Emilin hastily tiptoed away; it’d be mortifying to be caught spying on the couple right now.

She found her shoes just inside the door and slipped into them. Then she opened the door and rushed outside, closing the door quickly behind her. She hoped she’d done it fast enough not to let a noticeable draught in.

It was freezing cold outside. The wind blasted the snow into her face, rough like grains of sand, and then tossed up the edges of her quilt. In the midst of the courtyard a ball of golden light illuminated a small figure kneeling in the snow with her head bowed.

Emilin ran forward. Curinwe raised her head to look up at her.

“Are you cold?” asked Curinwe, gesturing to the quilt.

“Am _I_ cold? You’re the one stuck out in a blizzard.”

“I’ve been practicing my Heat Transfer spell. I’m not cold at all.” She reached out her gloved hand. “Here, let me warm you up.”

Emilin took Curinwe’s hand and waited. Curinwe closed her eyes. “I’m focusing,” she explained. There was another burst of warmth from her hand, as with the Illusion spells, but this time, the warm feeling didn’t dissipate.

“You’re going to stay with us, right?” asked Curinwe, withdrawing her hand.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

“Good. I want a friend who I don’t have to say goodbye to.”

“Do you have to say goodbye to all your friends, then?” asked Emilin.

Curinwe nodded. “We move _a lot_.”

“Your mother told me . . .” Emilin stopped herself. What if Curinwe didn’t know her parents’ fear?

“My uncle wants to kill me,” said Curinwe flatly.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“I’m used to it.” Curinwe stared into the dark beyond the circle of magelight. “I’ll kill him instead some day.”

“I’ll help you,” Emilin promised. Then she knelt down in the snow beside Curinwe and wrapped the quilt around them both. “Okay?”

Curinwe relaxed her stance and let herself lean against Emilin. “Okay.”

They stayed there together till the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Seven years after this story, Master Andanyon and his wife Jeanne were murdered by Thalmor agents, led by his own brother. Their daughter Curinwe survived, with the help of her comrade Emilin, and would live to become chief Imperial Battlemage of the Mede Empire. She'd also live to see her reputation destroyed by the Thalmor, and then to fight and die in the Great War. She didn't live to see her granddaughter, Cecilia Varo, who would one day be known as the Dragonborn.
> 
> All this backstory is an important part of my main longer fic, "The Bonds of Civility", which features Emilin as a main character and Curinwe as an ever-present influence on her descendants' lives. As well, Master Andanyon's niece Elenwen became the Dominion's First Emissary to Skyrim.
> 
> Master Andanyon was a loving parent to Curinwe, but not always the best one. And his own mirky past will be further explored in the main fic. 
> 
> I'm really interested in responses from readers. Whether this fic interested you in the longer story, if you haven't read it. Or if anything surprised you about this one-shot if you're following the longer story.
> 
> Also: 
> 
> *Me to myself*: I will write a one-shot and call it "The World Will Never Be the Same" and you can't stop me.
> 
> Who cares if everyone names their fics after Hamilton lyrics? It'll be the first fic *I* name after Hamilton lyrics.


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